


D is For

by Cerise_anouk



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, after the world is unsnapped, bucky is the key master, by key i mean dick, darcy is the gate keeper, gotta pay the toll, i am trash, idefk, its his dick you guys, nick furys disco stick, pure trash, show me your dick, this is a dumpster fire, vermont we love you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 08:45:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16281347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerise_anouk/pseuds/Cerise_anouk
Summary: Word on the street was that if you wanted to reach Thor and the new Asgardian settlement, you had to go through Darcy Lewis.“You want to see Thor? I’m gonna need to see some D.” She holds her hands up at an unrealistic distance apart.





	D is For

Word on the street was that if you wanted to reach Thor and the new Asgardian settlement, you had to go through Darcy Lewis.

After that whole Thanos business the sizable group of space refugees had taken root somewhere Norway and cloaked their settlement with so much Asgardian magic and alien tech that nobody could find it. Jane Foster had conveniently gone ghost at the same time and since Strange was _apparently_ not currently on this plane of existence _or_ taking phone calls they were stuck going through less reputable channels to get in touch with the new heterochromatic king. A friend of an enemy’s frenemy who knew an ex-assassin’s sister’s cousin’s ex-wife’s brother who _now_ worked at the sandwich shop that the guy who changed Ted’s (who works in the accounting department of the Avenger’s upstate facility) oil at Jiffy Lube had name dropped one Darcy Lewis when they’d spoken to him earlier that week. Or well, they’d spoken and he’d written. It was kinda hard to speak with your jaw wired shut as you sat in traction in a hospital bed.

Apparently, they weren’t the only ones trying to get ahold of Thor.

The scion of Stark Industries had scoffed at that bit of intel, told Steve to hold his scotch and bent his formidable mind and his girl FRIDAY to the task of finding their mutual friend and his ragtag bunch of interstellar LARPers. Ten hours later Tony’d emerged pouty and mildly frustrated, finally conceding that they might _possibly_ MAYBE need to get in touch with this Darcy Lewis person and ask where Thor’d dun gone and run off to. He’d found nothing. Nada. Zip. Bupkiss.

It had taken all of ten minutes to find her via old SHIELD files and Facebook. She didn’t answer when they called twelve times and her voicemail had been full. So the crew, consisting of Tony, Steve (he had some pretty deeply ingrained control issues), Sam (because duh) and Bucky (because seriously, _duh_ ), had loaded up on a jet and schlepped on over to a tiny town in the backwoods of Vermont.

And this is where we pick up with our super heroes.

Disembarking from the cloaked Quinjet alongside Sam and Steve into brisk fall air, Bucky glances about, stuffing his hands deep into warm jacket pockets. They had landed on the small town’s even smaller school’s play field. A rudimentary baseball diamond and a forgotten kickball are the only witnesses to their arrival. It is cold, wet and the icy promise of winter is nipping at his whiskered cheeks. “She works at some local catch-all coffee shop called the _Sit and Sip_ ,” Tony says breezing past him, making a face when his doubtlessly designer boots squelch into the sodden grass. Bucky stays silent as they leave the soggy school grounds behind, glancing about as FRIDAY directs them down idyllic streets through the postcard worthy hamlet. It is night and day compared to the overcrowded hustle and bustle of New York. Pretty row houses with their neatly manicured lawns glowing with cheery light from within and wisps of gray smoke lazily rising from brick chimneys.

“Apparently the place serves breakfast and lunch as well as sells books and fishing bait in the summer,” Tony rambles, “because who wouldn’t want to order a side of night crawlers with their ham sammich.” Bucky meets Steve’s eyes behind Howard’s kid’s head and rolls his. Leave it to a Stark to find fault with the perfect looking place. The damn town belonged on a stamp. He’d never smelled air this crisp. They stop on a corner and wait for two older model cars to roll through the flashing red at a lazy pace before crossing, “Jesus,” Tony says with mild disgust as they pass an old church and an ancient, smiling mailman, “This place’s a Thomas Kincaid wet dream. Over there.”

The _Sit and Sip_ is sandwiched between an honest to god seamstress shop of the likes Bucky hasn’t seen since his pre-war days with retro dresses in its large display window and a pet groomer’s with pictures of poorly trimmed animals wearing truly god-awful bandanas around their necks. A sun-faded ‘open’ sign hangs in one of the cafés large bay windows.

An old bell dings overhead as Tony pulls open the red door and Bucky is immediately enveloped in warmth and the pleasant scents of coffee, fresh bread and stewed meat and vegetables. Stomping the wet off his boots on the large welcome mat he scopes out the occupants: a group of six sharp eyed old women knitting on comfortable looking chairs and couches, a few scruffy old timers dressed for hunting season stationed at the street view window bar, and one single barista at the counter.

There is an overabundance of LL Bean in the room.

They all pause in their day-to-day to stare at the obvious outsiders, and for a moment the only sound in the room is the soft music humming through the overhead speakers, the clack-clack of needles and the distant clatter of kitchen staff. Then everyone pretends to go about their daily like business as usual. As if four _very_ recognizable people hadn’t just walked in.

Everyone, except the barista who’s leaning on the counter with a slightly amused look on her face, a smirk curling her plush lips, and a set of truly spectacular breasts in a knit sweater propped up on her folded arms.

Tony cocks a brow and Steve, Sam and Bucky exchange glances. Stark steers them towards the looker with the dangerous smile. Bucky feels a skitter of foreboding mixed with an unhealthy dose of attraction dance down his spine as they make their way across the decently sized room, their footfalls sounding out on the creaky plank floor. He’s developed what he considers a sixth sense (and a healthy amount of apprehension) over the past seventy-odd years when it came to women with dangerous smiles, and this one, who may or may  not be the Darcy Lewis they were looking for, set all the warning bells off in his head. She was Trouble with a capital T.

The absolute fucked part about it was he was just that little bit more attracted to her because of it.

“What’ll it be?” she asks when they’re finally in front of her.

“Darcy Lewis?” Tony asserts.

Maybe Darcy Lewis cocks an unperturbed brow at the man, and doesn’t even spare a glance for the rest of them, “Look dude, unless you’re planning on ordering anything, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave so I can serve the _paying_ customers.”

Now it’s Tony’s turn to cock a disbelieving eyebrow at the woman, “I’m sure whatever burnt beans you pass off as espresso here tastes super Sweetheart, but we’re _kind of_ on a deadline so—“

Then, to Bucky’s fucking delight and astonishment, she leans to the side, looks right past them and says in a raised voice, “Next in line please!”

Her words startle Stark into stunned silence and the utter sincerity in her voice makes him chance a glance over his shoulder to see if anyone is in line behind them.

There’s not.

Irritation rolls over his face and he whips back around, “Look, we—“

“What part of “paying customers” didn’t you understand, Sonny?” one of the old timer’s interrupts in a reedy voice.

Bucky darts a look around. Yep. They’ve definitely caught the attention of every person in the place. One of the granny’s knitting has a particularly gimlet stare aimed their way. She’s also sporting a mean forearm tat of a set of knitting needles crossed over a ball of yard with the phrase ‘Knit And Destroy’ in bold ink arching above and below the image.

“Tony,” Steve says in a low tone.

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut in aggravation, “Oh for the love of—small vanilla latte, no foam,” he spits out.

“Awesome choice, sir,” comes her unruffled response, “and will there be anything for your friends?”

“Why the hell not,” Tony snarks, with an over exaggerated shrug/head toss combo that clearly conveys how ridiculous he’s finding this.

They give their orders with amusement clear on their faces.

Tony waits impatiently while she makes their drinks, humming along with the music. There is finger tapping. Weight shifting happens. The random various snacks, postcards and adverts get fiddled with. Sam is fussing on his phone. Steve rocks back and forth on his heels as he takes a gander at the rustic décor (the word ‘décor’ being used loosely. There is a mounted moose head on the wall with floral oven mitts covering the palmate points). Bucky keeps his hands in his pockets and actively tries not to stare at the intriguing little up-tick curling the corner of (hopefully) Darcy Lewis’ full mouth.

He’s totally failing.

“That’ll be twelve dollars,” she says, placing the generic to-go cups on the counter.

Tony hands her a twenty, she hands back the change then stares pointedly at the decently filled tip jar.

“Mercenary,” He growls as he shoves his change into it.

As soon as his hand clears the lip she relaxes against the counter, “Go for it.”

“You’re Darcy Lewis?” Sam asks just for clarification.

“I am one of three-hundred-and-forty-seven Darcy Lewis’ on Facebook, yes.”

“Jane Foster’s intern?” Tony tosses his hand in the air, completely out of patience, “Culver grad? Ring any bells?”

Darcy rolls her eyes, “ _Fine_. I’m that specific Darcy Lewis. What do you want?”

“We need to see Thor,” Tony punctuates his words by tapping a pointed finger into the counter, “Like yesterday. Word on the street is _you_ know how to get in touch with him. Now, as I’m sure you know who _we_ are,” he flaps his hand at their little group, “it’s obviously important. So. Why don’t you tell us where he is, hm?”

Bucky admires a gal who can take Stark’s ‘don’t fuck with me’ glare with nothing more than an intrigued tilt of her head.

She thinks it over for a few seconds then nods to herself, pushing off the counter, “Alright. I’ll take you to Thor.”

All four relax at those words.

“Great, just lead the way—“

“ _If_ you show me your dick.”

That stops them dead in their tracks.

“Pardon?” Steve asks, not believing what he’s just heard.

“You want to see Thor? I’m gonna need to see some D.” She holds her hands up at an unrealistic distance apart.

They stare at her nonplussed and she stares undaunted back.

“…You’re joking, right?” says Sam.

“Look at this face,” she points her dainty index finger at her pretty mug, “Does it look like I’m joking?”

The four men pass glances at each other. Bucky shrugs.

“…No?” Steve hazards a guess.

Darcy gives him an approving nod, “Smart man.”

“You can _not_ be serious,” Tony demands.

“Look,” She rolls her eyes, obviously over this back and forth, “Anyone who wants to get to Thor, has to show me at least one,” she holds up a finger, “penis, or whatever their non-human, non-male equivalent is. Dem’s the rules. Like, there is a literal rule book, and that is one-hundred-percent, actual facts listed under, ‘in case of request to see Thor’. I didn’t come up with them dude, I just get paid to enforce them. And make coffee.”

“You ask _every_ body who comes here looking for Thor to flash you?” Sam asks, obvious disbelief in his voice.

“Uh, Yup. What part, exactly, didn’t you get about ‘that’s what I get paid to do’?” the look on her face as she stares him down clearly questions his intelligence.

“And there’s _nothing_ else we can do instead?” Steve chimes in, obviously hoping for some alternate feat of strength and/or possibly a noble quest as an option.

“Trust me Captain Hot Cheeks, if I could get outta seeing which way rando’s hang their brain, or if they rock seventies era bush, or what a Fartōnæümian considers genitalia, believe me, I would,” she looks about fourty-five percent sincere at that statement, “But, like I said, that’s what I get paid to do. Contractually obligated, even. _Sheesh_ , Nick Fury didn’t even put up this much of a fight.”

That set them all back, “Nick Fury, _the_ Nick Fury, ex-director of S.H.E.I.L.D.,” Tony states with a narrow lie detecting stare, “Showed _you_ his disco stick.”

She nods solemnly at him, “It was so beautiful I thanked him for it. Though, TBH, I’m pretty sure Maria Hill is planning my totally _not_ an accident accidental death as we speak now.”

Steve squints at her for a long moment, then shrugs and looks at them, “Well I don’t see a way around it, guys.”

“I’m convinced,” Tony agrees.

Bucky snorts, rolling his eyes as Sam scoffs, “Really? _Really?_ She throws out that Nick ‘Badass Motherfucka’ Fury slapped his meat on the counter and _now_ there’s no other options?”

“Um,” the brunette behind the counter chimes in, “There was no slapping of man meat on any counters. That’s a health code violation, my guy.”

Steve and Tony share a glance then Steve shrugs, “Pretty much.”

Sam sends a very ‘why me’ look at the ceiling before shaking his head, “Alright. As long as we’re clear.”

 “Well,” Tony says with an air of self-sacrifice, starting to undo his belt, “Can’t say I haven’t flashed for less-“

“Ew, no,” Darcy’s look of complete and utter disgust stops _Forbes’_ (richest) Sexiest Man Alive 2015 dead in his tracks, “Not _you_. Anyone who’s typed your name into Google and hit search can see that, and fyi? _Not_ your crowning glory, dude,” she points at Bucky, “I meant _him_.”

Bucky blinks, shocked down to his boots and feels like a deer caught in the head lights as Tony, hands still on his buckle and looking mildly outraged, an affronted Sam and a speechless Steve all swivel to look at where Darcy’s pointing.

Bucky feels his cock twitch at the idea of her paying it any type of attention. _Not the time, pal. Not. The. Time._ He wills his dick to stay down.

He also fights the urge to shield his crotch from all the eyes suddenly staring at it.

“Um,” he says intelligently, feeling a little panicked. And aroused.

“Are you _sure_ Tony’s won’t do?” Steve asks, recognizing the stage fright flashing in Bucky’s eyes, trying to save his buddy, “I mean, as far as penis’ go, Buck’s is pretty average.”

Sam chokes on a laugh, Tony snorts, already over the blow to his ego.

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky hisses, “ _Not_ helping.” Pretty average? Seriously. Why not just go for ‘he lost it in The War and now pisses through a funnel’? Cripes. Would’a unmanned him less. Now he’s gotta do it just to prove a damn point.

“Nope,” She crosses her arms under her ample chest, locking eyes filled with amusement (and what he’s hoping is a fair amount of attraction) with Bucky’s, “You want Thor, then Sargent Pouty Lips is gonna have to whip out his love gun, guys.”

He feels his lips tingle at the description. He’d show her pouty lips. For a long moment he just stares back.

The three other men glance back and forth between the two.

“Soo…” Tony drags out.

“I think you’re gonna have to jump on this grenade, pal,” Steve murmurs, looking mildly sympathetic but also relieved that it wasn’t him.

Bucky reaches for his belt. The clatter of the buckle followed by the hiss of leather being pulled through is loud over the low café music. The pop of his button might as well be a gun shot with how it echoes and the zip could probably be heard in the next town over. Hooking his thumbs in his waistband he stalls.

Darcy settles against the counter, cocking a brow at him.

He’ll be taking that look off her face later he promises himself. Never moving his eyes from hers he shoves his pants down to his knees, then stands at parade rest. For a moment longer she keeps her eyes locked with his, and it’s now his turn to cock a brow. _Scared?_ His expression asks.

She lets her eyes slowly and leisurely travel down his body, their perusal almost like a physical touch, stopping only when they land on his half-hard cock.

She tilts her head to the side.

It twitches a ‘hi’ at her.

“Good for you, Sonny,” one of the old timer’s at the bar congratulates him in a voice shaky with age. The other wrinkled men make noises of agreement.

“How _vulgar_ ,” an elderly woman in an overly floral appliqué cardigan sniffs in disdain.

Bucky feels his cheeks flush, hastily pulling his pants back up. Christ, “We good here?” he asks, voice gruff from embarrassment.

“Paid in full,” Darcy says, with what he’s hoping is the heat of attraction warming her voice.

Hey, the room had a mildly chilly cross breeze, alright? And nobody likes to perform on the spot for an audience. Well, except Tony. And Johnny Storm.

And Hulk. But ew, and nobody ever wanted to remember that. Ever.

One of the other biddies fixes the first with a gimlet glare, “Nobody asked _you,_ Martha.”

“Honestly,” another says, knitting needles clacking away, “You act like we don’t know you come here just to see the tally whackers flop about.”

Tony damn near chokes on his spit at ‘tally whackers’.

“Well I _never_ ,” Martha huffs, scandalized.

“That’s your problem, Martha,” the tattooed one states flatly, “You never.”

Darcy slaps a ‘be back in a moment’ sign on the counter, “And that’s our cue to go,” she walks over to the hall waving them over, “follow me, guys,” glancing at the gang of arguing grannies, “Mae, if you shank anyone it’s a mandatory month ban. You’re on your third strike,” with that parting warning she struts down the hall, hips swaying enticingly.

She leads them past the bathrooms, and as they pass the kitchen Bucky glances in, taking in the very tall, very burly, very long haired and full bearded, looking suspiciously Asgardian cooks bustling about the space as they chat in an odd language. They stop in front of a dingy narrow door that looks like a forgotten coat closet or a water heater might be housed behind it.

Bucky nudges Steve, pointing out the Asgardian symbols carved around the jamb.

Darcy lifts a hand and bangs a fist on the flimsy looking wood then waits.

And waits.

Tony taps his fingers against his thigh.

Steve slurps his beverage.

Sam looks like he’s deeply regretting even waking up this morning.

Bucky is staring at the back of Darcy Lewis’ head, imagining how her glossy brown hair would feel wrapped tight around his fist as he rocks into her.

The clicking of locks can be heard coming from the other side, then the door is yanked open. A fucking _beast_ of a male decked out in full Asgardian armor wearing the stankiest of stank faces and sporting the most magnificent red beard ever to exist glares death out at them. The four take a reflexive step back. Tony actually reaches for his wristbands.

Darcy doesn’t even flinch, “Hey, Njorthrbiartr,” she greets absentmindedly.

“God bless you?” Steve murmurs uncertainly at the petite woman.

Sam smacks him on the back of the head, “It’s his _name_ , man,” he hisses.

“Kill. Me. Now,” Tony beseeches the universe, “I can’t take you losers anywhere. _So_ embarrassing.”

“These guys,” Darcy thumbs over her shoulder at them, “are here to see Thor. Wanna let us through?”

The giant focuses his beady eyes on each of them before settling them back on the relaxed brunette, “Passphrase,” he rumbles in a heavily accented voice deep enough they feel the bass of it in their chests.

“Thanos eat my ass.”

“ _That’s_ your pass–,“ Sam starts to ask.

Njorthrbiartr steps silently aside revealing a bustling village square filled with a blend of Asgardians and aliens going about their day, shocking Sam into silence.

Darcy leads the stunned men through the narrow doorway and across the piazza, greeting people as she goes, passing market stalls, establishments and housing units. Clearly, the refugees have been busy since settling. They catch sight of Thor standing before a building still in its construction phase going over a set of blueprints with who appeared to be the head contractor.

“Ta-da,” Darcy, sings, Vana White-ing at the thunder god, “One Asgardian king.”

Tony sails right past her, Steve only pauses long enough for his manners to kick in and thank her, and an equally as grateful Sam is quick to follow.

Darcy steps into his path before Bucky can take more than a step, “Soooo…” she draws out, her confident aloofness replaced by fidgety nervousness, “um, I feel like I should offer to buy you dinner? Or Something? For the whole,” she flutters her fingers at his crotch and his cock jerks with renewed interest, “’show me your business’ business?”

If the slight blush (attractive as fuck) dusting her cheeks wasn’t a clear sign that she was just as into him as he was her, then he didn’t know what was. Feeling a rush of confidence roll through him, Bucky smirks, “You offer to buy dinner for everyone who drops trou for you?”

He watches in silent glee as her blush turns a deeper red, “Nope. Um. This, this would be a first for me.”

He lets her sweat it out for a second in silence, lets her think he’s considering it as pay back for making him present in front of a crowd, even though he has no intention of turning down her offer.

“Alright,” Bucky says, finally putting her out of her misery, “I know a place. S’got pretty good coffee,” He pointedly takes a sip out of his to-go cup.

The slow smile that curls across her lips sends a tingle down his spine.

He’d known she was trouble the moment he’d caught sight of her.

He’s glad he was right.

**Author's Note:**

> bucky eventually moves to Vermont and shacks up with darcy, where really she lives in New Asgard  
> he hangs with the old timers and reminisces about The Good Old Days  
> he starts to wear a lot of plaid  
> He sees a lot of different genitalia when hes not off helping to save the world  
> I imagine Pop from Grumpy Old Men as the talking old man if youre needing a visual.


End file.
